Colin Has His Demons

Three to be exact. They are following me now, taking great enjoyment from tripping me up, shoving me over the one who’s snuck behind, snickering on all fours as I topple backward.People think I’m clumsy or drunk. In the café, they swap the sugar for salt, collapse into fits when I spit out my tea. I christen my demons Gaspar, Melchior, Balthasar.They scupper every position I apply for, gurning in my eyeline behind the interviewer, dropping their trousers to fart in unison– the tuning of a foul orchestra. I receive no offers.At the tube station they block the train doors, prevent me from boarding, jump off as they close. We stand on an empty platform, staring dumbly into the tunnel. They imitate the train’s receding hoot like a pack of idiot wolves.We return home late. They abuse strays, upend wheelie bins. Neighbours twitch at their curtains: Here he comes. Pissed again. I grab Balthasar’s lapels, scream into his face: “Leave me alone!” This is the best thing they’ve ever heard.My…